


an early dawn

by zeldalookslonely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:29:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26915161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldalookslonely/pseuds/zeldalookslonely
Summary: Mycroft watches as Sherlock stumbles home from the Yard for the first time, gripping his coat tight around his narrow shoulders, hat pulled low over his eyes.  But he doesn’t look high.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 8
Kudos: 151
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is for na for Fandom Trumps Hate 2020. Thank you for your patience!!
> 
> Title plucked from the song Black & Flowers by Bella Ruse:
> 
> _i never heard you laugh until the day that i came back  
>  it was an early dawn, and i came home with fetters on  
> chained to your heart_

Mycroft Holmes is used to being in charge. He’s used to the multitasking, the compartmentalizing. He can make decisions, make them quickly and surely; he can make decisions and he can deal with the consequences of those decisions and he can almost trust his instincts. Can almost trust that he makes the best possible choices: the best decisions he can make at the time with the information available to him. He can almost stop second guessing. Almost.

…

“There’s something I don’t understand,” Sherlock says; a rare utterance indeed. He’s just past ten years old. Mycroft is eighteen, and he’s fixing breakfast in their sweltering kitchen while their parents wander overseas.

Sherlock is remarkably particular about his food for someone who barely eats, and the toast is taking more of Mycroft’s attention than should be necessary. He shifts to glance back at Sherlock. “What is it you don’t understand?”

“You,” Sherlock says. “I don’t understand you.”

Mycroft debates whether to flip the toast. “No?”

“No. You’re so…”

“So what?”

“Intelligent,” Sherlock says, making a face similar to the one he made after deciding to taste his mold specimens. “You’re intelligent.”

Mycroft turns to stare at Sherlock in some surprise. Sherlock is looking up at him with those dark, piercing eyes of his. “Yes,” Mycroft says quietly. “I am.”

“Yes! You are. You’re intelligent, but that’s what I don’t understand: you’re useless. You’re intelligent but useless. How did you let that happen? How can I stop it from happening to me?”

Mycroft takes a quick step back; bangs right into the kitchen counter. Looks Sherlock in the eye. Sherlock, emotional Sherlock, who will say any number of hurtful things when he’s angry, when he’s sad. But Sherlock isn’t angry or sad. He’s curious. Matter-of-fact. Sherlock is earnest.

“There’s no point to you,” Sherlock says, as if Mycroft is quiet because he needs further explanation.

A quick retort would be best, but Mycroft’s mouth is so dry he can hardly speak, can hardly breathe, and Sherlock is _in earnest_ ; Sherlock is here asking for sincere advice; _Sherlock_ , the same Sherlock Mycroft held in his arms as a small infant. The same Sherlock he chased around the park. The same Sherlock who cried for Mycroft to bandage his scraped knees.

Mycroft says nothing. The toast burns black, smoke-acrid. Inedible. Sherlock doesn’t look surprised.

...

Greg is first through the door, through the smoke, through the flames. It’s Greg who lays hands on his chest, it’s Greg who wipes the blood from his face. Sherlock ambles in after, and there it is, still in his eyes, still, _still_ , after all this time: _useless, useless, useless_. There’s no _point_ to him.

Mycroft doesn’t speak.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft watches as Sherlock stumbles home from the Yard for the first time, gripping his coat tight around his narrow shoulders, hat pulled low over his eyes. But he doesn’t look high.

“He’s not high,” Mycroft murmurs aloud, and Sherlock stops as if he’s heard. Turns and stares down the nearest CCTV lens. Gestures broadly, then whips out his cell phone.

_Keep your abnormally large nose out of my business. SH_

_I need this. I expect no interference from you. SH_

Sherlock glances up at the camera again, then down at his phone. _Please. SH._

_Understood. MH._

…

And so it goes, until Mycroft receives a third irate voicemail from one Gregory Lestrade -- the third voicemail left on his _personal mobile phone_. A phone of which only four living beings know the number, three of whom would never reveal it. 

_You gave my phone number to your Detective Inspector? MH_

_Oh, yes. I’d so hoped it would annoy you. SH_

_And here I thought you desired your privacy. MH_

_You started it. SH_

He most certainly _did not_ , but saying so would only result in another circular argument with Sherlock. He chokes down the words left untexted and directs his driver to Scotland Yard.

He’s prepared himself for a proper dressing-down, but by the time he reaches this Lestrade’s office, the atmosphere is calm. Quiet. Mycroft is reminded of the false, temporary relief found in the eye of a storm, and he twists his umbrella in his hands but doesn’t shy away: meets Lestrade’s eyes with his chin up.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Mr. Holmes.” Lestrade gestures to a chair opposite his desk, and Mycroft lowers himself into it, spine straight. Expression carefully neutral.

“I understand you wished to speak to me?”

Lestrade stands. Says nothing. He busies himself at a small coffee maker to the side of his desk, then sets a mug down in front of Mycroft. “Carver Lawson,” he says.

_Ah_. “Yes? What about him?”

“Drink,” he says, tapping the rim of his own mug. “You look like you could use it.”

Mycroft takes a small sip and hums, almost against his will. Sweet. Strong. “Thank you,” he says.

“Carver Lawson,” Lestrade says again. “Less than twelve hours ago, Carver Lawson was in my holding cell. He was in my holding cell because I arrested him. _I arrested him_ , after fourteen months of false starts. After fourteen months of near-misses. After ferreting out a spy for Lawson among my ranks. After the mysterious and highly coincidental death of a witness. After _fourteen months_ of watching him slip through my fingers, over and over, I arrested Carver Lawson.” He bares his teeth in a smile.

“Lestrade,” Mycroft says softly, and perhaps too informally. “I--”

“Carver Lawson is no longer in my holding cell. Nobody can tell me where he went. No documentation. And no security footage! Strange, that. What are the chances?”

Mycroft sips his coffee. Clears his throat.

“Yes,” Lestrade says. “I figured you could tell me. What are the chances? Because you know, don’t you? You know.”

Mycroft does him the courtesy of skipping the denials. “I’m afraid it was a matter of national security.” He shrugs his shoulders, holds out his palms in a well-practiced gesture of commiseration that reads ‘ _it’s out of my hands_ , _I’m just as frustrated as you are’_. Turn your gaze away. Nothing more to see here.

Lestrade stands. Paces. “National security,” he repeats. “National security.” He perches on his desk, dangerously close to Mycroft. Peers into his eyes, head cocked to one side. “I thought it must be something like that. Idiot me. Right up until I remembered Sherlock.”

“Sherlock has nothing to do with this,” Mycroft says quickly.

Lestrade’s eyes, incomprehensibly, soften at the lie. “He deals to Sherlock, doesn’t he?”

“Dealt,” Mycroft snaps. Emotional. _Obvious_. He closes his eyes. “Sherlock has--”

“Nothing to do with it, right.” Lestrade strides around the room before finally taking a seat at his desk. He trains his eyes on Mycroft, more piercing than before. More fierce. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Heaves a sigh, grinds his palms against eyes. When he looks at Mycroft again, he’s unemotional. Resigned. “You’re not the only one who cares about Sherlock,” he says, and it makes Mycroft’s gut twist with anger. He knows what people want from Sherlock.

“And I suppose you’ll tell me that you wouldn’t use Sherlock? Not for your career, _Detective Inspector_? Not for a case? Not for the greater good? When he tells you he _thinks better_ while high, you wouldn’t look the other way? Or haven’t you?”

“I haven’t,” Lestrade says simply, so simply and genuinely even Mycroft can’t detect deceit. “I won’t. I would never do that.”

Mycroft stands abruptly. “I’ll have someone contact you about Lawson,” he says, and turns toward the door, but Lestrade moves quickly, is up and blocking the exit before Mycroft has time to blink. 

He holds out one hand to Mycroft, hesitantly, as if he doesn’t expect Mycroft to acknowledge him, and it’s for that reason that Mycroft shakes his hand. “Lestrade,” he says. A farewell.

“Greg,” Lestrade says with an easy smile. “Goodbye, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft sweeps out the door. Doesn’t look back. Can’t.

…

_This is Greg. Got the transfer. Thank you._

_No need. MH._

…

_My niece is very good at hide and seek. Almost called Sherlock for help. Greg._

_She was in the kitchen cabinet, by the way. Greg._

_Under the sink? MH._

_How did you know? Greg._

_Fine, keep your secrets, Mr. Holmes. Greg._

…

_Sherlock tricked Anderson into believing he had amnesia today. Greg._

_I don’t imagine it was very difficult. MH._

_Oi! Greg._

…

_Pub tonight? Celebrating. Greg._

_Congratulations on the case, Mr. Lestrade. MH._

_Congratulate Sherlock, really. Greg._

_No doubt you deserve double the credit: you solved the case and managed Sherlock at the same time. I’ll thank you not to redirect my sincere congratulations. MH._

…

Mycroft runs.

It’s not always a punishment.

Sometimes his feet pound the treadmill in a satisfying way and his head clears, sharp and crisp and bright. This _thing_ , this _body_ , this flesh and bone that belong to him and him alone, this body that is _his_ and _him_ and whose care it is impossible to outsource. He will smirk at himself in the mirror and let his accomplishments outweigh his failures. He will scare away images of Sherlock on the cold floor of a dirty underpass, of Eurus locked away and wilted, of kind brown eyes, of the empty chocolate wrappers. He will outrun his indulgences.

He will outrun his indulgence.

…

The next time he sees Lestrade in person, they’re in an empty warehouse.

“You could have just texted, you know,” Lestrade says. “Could’ve come over to mine for a pint. Could’ve dropped by without texting; I wouldn’t have minded. Didn’t have to _kidnap me_.”

Mycroft pastes his most genial smile on his face. “I have a proposition for you.”

Lestrade looks up at him with a small smile. A soft smile. His stance relaxes. There’s a light flush over his cheeks, and Mycroft can’t look away. “Yeah?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says. “Sherlock. I can offer you a substantial sum for ongoing information regarding Sherlock.”

Lestrade bites down on his bottom lip. “Information?”

Mycroft tries to assess the situation but finds it strangely difficult; he notes details as usual (Lestrade’s brows are furrowed and his bottom lip is white with pressure from his teeth; hands clenched at his sides) but fails to hypothesize an analysis. Mycroft clears his throat. “I want details about his actions. The names of his companions. The state of his…”

“Sobriety,” Lestrade finishes, and it’s not exactly what Mycroft was going to say, but it suits well enough. 

“Sobriety,” he agrees.

Lestrade tips his head to one side. Processing. Pale now, though still luminescent in the dim light. Glowing. Glowing. “Mycroft,” Lestrade says softly, on an exhale. “You don’t have to-- we’re friends.” He pauses to glance up at Mycroft’s face and huffs. “We’re _friendly_ ,” he says, as if correcting himself, smiling self-deprecatingly. “You don’t have to bribe me into letting you know how your brother is doing.”

“It’s hardly a bribe,” Mycroft says, and Lestrade gives him another subtle look. Ends the conversation with a good-natured shrug and a smile -- _ends the conversation_ , as if it’s that easy.

Anthea lays a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder on their way home - a rare touch; a gesture of comfort. Of commiseration.

He shrugs her hand away.


	3. Chapter 3

The air is cold and crisp. Refreshing. Mycroft stands outside of 221B and breathes in deep. Lets the air fill his lungs. Soaks in the Christmas cheer and and unusual merry friendliness infecting the London streets tonight. Groans. He wants a cigarette. He _needs_ a cigarette. He won’t allow himself a cigarette, not now; not during this pathetic tradition of haunting Sherlock during Christmas, unseen.

It’s not exactly a surprise to see Lestrade stumbling from Sherlock’s flat, but neither did Mycroft expect to see him so early, or alone. 

“Mr. Lestrade,” says Mycroft, almost against his own will, and certainly against his own best interests.

Lestrade looks up, back down, then up again, eyes wide. He laughs, low, but wobbles and braces himself against the door with one hand. “Mycroft,” he says. “It’s Christmas.”

“Yes,” says Mycroft

“Are you heading inside?”

“No.”

“I could let Sherlock know you’re--”

“He knows.”

“Right. ‘Course.” He sways a bit, back and forth.

“Let me give you a ride home,” Mycroft says gently.

“I’m not going _home_ ,” Lestrade spits.

“Quite right. Quite right. Let me give you a ride elsewhere.”

Lestrade laughs again, but allows himself to be led to the car and ushered into the back seat. “I got back together with my wife,” he says dully.

“I see,” says Mycroft evenly. Congratulations would be dishonest, in more ways than one; judging by the turn of his collar and the cuff of his trousers--

Lestrade interrupts his thoughts as if he’s been speaking out loud. “Yeah, yeah, I already know. Been informed. She’s sleeping with the gym teacher.”

“I’m sorry,” says Mycroft.

Lestrade turns away to press his forehead to the car window. The silence is oppressive; every second feels like a minute and every minute feels like an hour.

Mycroft forces himself to speak. “I’ve never minded being alone. I’ve never considered myself lonely. But sometimes, I walk into my home and instead of feeling the relief that comes with solitude, I feel…” He trails off.

Lestrade breathes out against the glass and Mycroft can imagine the condensation spreading wide before shrinking away. 

“I knew it wasn’t going to work. I knew, before I ever asked, I knew it would never work. Why was I so desperate?” Lestrade asks. “Wasn’t about her, not really. Maybe it could’ve worked if it had been about her. But I was desperate to be _chosen_. To be…”

 _Loved_. Desperate to be loved.

“You’re not alone,” says Mycroft, and Lestrade turns toward him and sways closer, closer. Mycroft could lean forward to meet him halfway, press a kiss to his face, his lips. But Lestrade is drunk, and bereaved, and maybe sometimes being chosen means _not_ being kissed. Mycroft takes his hand instead. “You’re not alone,” he repeats. “There’s no shame in desperation, and it can be dealt with just as with any other… emotion.”

“Dealt with by repressing it?” Lestrade asks, but he looks amused, now. Distracted from his thoughts. He applies light pressure to their joined hands.

Mycroft swallows. “Surely there’s a difference between repression and… understanding. Understanding the disadvantages.”

“Some things are better than their disadvantages.”

“Mr. Lestrade--”

“Greg.”

“Greg,” says Mycroft. “I’m pleased to have seen you tonight.”

“I’m ready to go home now,” says Greg.

“Of course. As you wish.”

Greg touches Mycroft’s shoulder as they approach his flat. “Thank you,” he says. “I…”

“Think nothing of it,” Mycroft says.

Greg stares at Mycroft for a moment, and leans forward; Mycroft goes still, but Greg doesn’t kiss him -- he rests his cheek on Mycrofts shoulder, briefly, _briefly,_ then turns and exits the car without a backward glance. Mycroft closes his eyes; the better to memorize every second of that touch. To remember every second of warmth.

…

Mycroft runs. He run, and runs, and he’s still in the same place. The possibilities spiral outward, highs and lows, ups and downs and corkscrew turns, but the only unacceptable option at the moment is the one option that Mycroft has, for so long, considered necessary to dealing with his personal non-familial relationships: inaction.

…

_Hello. MH_

…

_Drugs check at 221b. A precaution. Greg._

_Thank you. MH._

…

_Are you well? MH_

_Perhaps you’d allow me to take you out to breakfast tomorrow morning? MH_

_Okay. Greg_

…

Mycroft instructs his driver to drop him off at Lestrade-- at _Greg’s_ new flat. He knocks at the door, quickly, too quickly to allow his brain time to talk him out of this whole endeavor, and holds up a bag of groceries when Greg answers.

Greg looks sleepy: slow blinking eyes, mussed hair. Voice still rough from disuse. “Didn’t think you meant you’d bring breakfast here,” he says, raking a hand through his hair. He doesn’t ask how Mycroft learned his new address.

“I trusted you’d forgive the imposition,” Mycroft says, eyebrow up, smirk pasted on. Projecting confidence.

Greg laughs, and Mycroft may as well be a pane of glass: he’s never been seen through so quickly. Still, Greg doesn’t hesitate to open the door and usher Mycroft inside. “If only all impositions were like this.”

“Kitchen?” Mycroft asks, and Greg leads him through the living room and into his kitchen, which is small but bright, and clean outside of a single cup and plate in the sink. Mycroft spreads his ingredients -- all the makings of a nice fried up breakfast -- over the counter.

“Wow,” says Greg. “What can I do to help?”

Mycroft nudges an onion towards Greg. “How are your chopping skills?”

“Passable,” says Greg, shrugging. He moves around the kitchen, pointing out the location of anything Mycroft might need, before settling in front of a cutting board. “I never pictured you cooking, really.”

 _I’m sure you haven’t pictured me_ starving. But that’s not a helpful thought, that’s not where he wants to be right now. Still, he can’t quite suppress a bitter laugh.

Greg bumps his shoulder against Mycroft’s, gently, and says quietly, “Not however you’re thinking I mean it. Only… only that it’s nice, that you came here. You didn’t have to. Last time was…”

Mycroft glances over his shoulder as Greg trails off -- it’s obvious what he means by his very demeanor and the streak of red over his cheeks -- obvious and wholly unnecessary. “You have no reason to be embarrassed,” he says curtly. Probably too curtly, but Greg relaxes. Smiles, and keeps smiling; smiles right through setting the small table and taking his first bite. Mycroft feels warm, and it has nothing to do with the peppers in his meal; Greg is smiling at him and he can hardly speak. Can hardly move. As if he doesn’t know how to conduct himself in the presence of company!

“How did you learn to cook?” Greg asks.

“Oh, trial and error,” Mycroft says, after far too long a pause. “I cooked for Sherlock and myself often when we were young. Perhaps I started to find it relaxing as I grew older and only had to please myself.”

“No pleasing Sherlock, I guess,” Greg says, sympathy tinged with humor. He bites his lip. “I lied,” he says abruptly.

“Oh?”

“I don’t actually have passable onion chopping skills.”

“Oh, I know,” Mycroft says drolly, and Greg bursts into bright laughter, mouth open, palm to forehead, elbow skidding over the table. Beautiful. _Beautiful_.

“Tell me about your work,” Mycroft says, so Greg will keep talking, and it works; Greg launches into a story about Anderson and a clever graffiti artist: “And now the graffiti has evolved into pointed criticism of Anderson’s police work and personal appearance--” But he’s interrupted by a persistent buzzing - his mobile.

“My sister,” Greg says, “One sec.” He steps out of the room, politely, though his flat is so small it’d be hard not to overhear. Mycroft could pull his focus elsewhere to give Greg his privacy; instead, he listens to Greg agreeing to drop his niece off at school today.

“I’ll get out of your way.” Mycroft says preemptively, when Greg returns to the table.

“Only if you’d like. Maggie’s going to drop by with Layla soon, and I’ll walk her to school. Would you like to meet them?”

“Of course,” Mycroft lies; meeting a child sounds positively ghastly, as always, but it’s clear there’s a connection between Greg and the girl.

Greg looks pleased, but almost surprised; he gathers the dishes from their breakfast and dumps them into the sink -- waving away Mycroft’s offers to help with washing -- and pulls him by hand to the sofa. He waits for Mycroft to sit first and settles close beside him - so close their knees knock, so close it turns into a gesture: a gesture that can’t be mistaken for anything but acceptance.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be open to this,” Greg says, rough, low. “Wasn’t sure you wanted to be.”

Mycroft, from long experience, recognizes this moment to be a crossroads: something he will look back upon with relief or regret, depending, of course, on the decision he makes now.

He clears his throat. “I have been historically bad--” he pauses to force eye contact, “historically bad at protecting those for whom I care. I have, until now, endeavored to keep that list as short as possible.”

“Until now?”

Mycroft nods. He opens his mouth. Closes it without saying a thing.

Greg squeezes his hand. “You don’t have to protect everyone, you know.”

“I--”

There’s a knock at the door, and a young girl rushes inside, a flurry of pink polka-dots and rainbow barrettes. She stops short in front of Mycroft, wide-eyed.

“This is Mr. Holmes,” Greg says, laughing.

She gives Mycroft a very obvious and critical once-over. “You look fancy.”

Mycroft hums. “You look to be an appropriate height for your age.”

“Thank you,” she says gravely.

“Chocolate milk in the kitchen!” Greg says, and the girl darts away.

“I should be going,” Mycroft says, to make his escape before it becomes necessary to engage again with the child.

“We should do this again,” Greg says.

“Absolutely.”

…

Four days later, Greg stands sheepishly at his door with a bag of breakfast burritos. “Your assistant said you were available this morning.”

Anthea smirks at him.

It’s later, well past night fall, when Mycroft says to Anthea, “Lestrade’s security.” There are any number of unsavory criminals - petty thieves and politicians alike - who will have found out today about Lestrade’s involvement in Mycroft’s life.

She makes a sound, derisive and offended, but so calculated and sure that Mycroft lets the matter drop. It’s clear that all necessary precautions have already been taken.

…

“I have precisely twenty-four minutes,” Mycroft says, holding up a foil-wrapped sandwich. He’s standing in the door to Greg’s office, and for a moment it feels like their first meeting. But Greg smiles up at him, expression soft and exhausted -- tired in a way he doesn’t usually allow the world to see.

Perhaps Mycroft knows the feeling -- in thirty-four minutes, he’ll be on a long flight to Sydney, and he won’t see London again for three weeks. “I’d like to see you when I get back,” he says, as if he’s mentioned aloud he’ll be out of town, or for how long.

“Yes,” says Greg. “Yes.”


	4. Chapter 4

Greg gives him an address as well as specific instructions: be there at precisely 9 pm the next Saturday night. The address turns out to belong to a pub near Mycroft’s office. Convenient. _Thoughtful_.

Still, Mycroft is nearly late; he dashes toward the entrance in an undignified manner, and has just enough time to wonder if he was expected to change into something more casual when Greg appears at his side, grinning.

“You made it,” he says, as if pleased; he rubs down Mycroft’s arms with his hands; he’s obviously a drink or two ahead. Just enough to be especially affectionate. 

“Did you doubt I would?”

Greg doesn’t answer, but ushers him inside, hand a possessive weight on the small of Mycroft’s back. “I should tell you--” he says.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asks

Dr. Watson groans at his side. “ _This_ is the guy?”

Sherlock is aghast, then resigned. “Of course. Of course.” He turns belligerently to Watson. “This isn’t my fault. Lestrade took evasive measures -- measures I saw through, _of course_ , but I assumed he was back together with the wife and merely trying to avoid another lecture about self-worth from you. Nobody would blame him. Terribly tedious. Now I see--”

Greg wraps a warm arm around Mycroft’s waist and tugs him toward a relatively secluded corner of the pub. Hugs him tight, holds him close. “The lads are here,” he mutters into Mycroft’s shoulder; he’s shaking, and after a tense moment, Mycroft realizes it’s with laughter.

“I’m so glad you’re amused,” Mycroft says, bone dry but with no bite, and Greg laughs harder. Pulls him impossibly closer.

“C’mon, have a pint. After a few drinks Sherlock is… still Sherlock. John gets more entertaining, though.”

Mycroft does order a pint, then a scotch, which is far more enjoyable. After all, he can’t bring himself to be upset; perhaps an opportunity to observe Greg in his natural habitat will be enlightening. But Greg is much the same as ever: it’s Sherlock that catches his attention. Sherlock who is slouching to one side, laughing and waving his hands to demonstrate his point. Watson laughs with him and throws an arm around his shoulder. Ruffles his hair. _Ruffles his hair_. Watson leans on Sherlock to stand, and Sherlock takes his weight. Sherlock watches Watson walk away and pushes a bowl of peanuts toward Greg, as if there’s a routine here. As if he knew Greg would be hungry.

Mycroft blinks, and Greg nudges him out of the booth, out of the pub. It’s cold outside, Mycroft thinks distantly. It’s cold outside and Sherlock has friends, real friends. Sherlock has _family_.

“Now you see,” Greg says. “You see, don’t you? You didn’t do so bad after all.”

Mycroft steps forward; he crowds Greg against the wall; he can’t stop himself from brushing their noses together. From kissing Greg’s lips, from opening his mouth, from breathing in Greg’s huff of surprise.

“You kissed me,” Greg says, eyes crinkled from his wide smile. “I thought you’d never kiss me.”

Mycroft thinks, _I didn’t want to push you. I didn’t know if you were ready. I didn’t know if I was ready. I’m unused to physical intimacy. I don’t want to lose you_. “You could have kissed me,” he says instead.

“I wanted to. I was going to.”

“When?”

“All of it,” Greg says, which doesn’t quite make sense but also makes more sense than anything else.

“Me too,” Mycroft says. “Me too.”

“Let’s go back to mine.”

…

Greg guides Mycroft backward into his flat, mouth to neck, hands clutching, trembling. It could almost be cliche: stumbling toward the bedroom, shedding clothes. Almost cliche, _almost, almost_ , if it wasn’t so _momentous_ , if it wasn’t a culmination of something so large and still expanding. If Mycroft could stand to think of this moment in any terms but the most glowing.

He’d be embarrassed by his exuberance if Greg wasn’t showing the same level of enthusiasm: “Let me _see_ you,” he says, tugging at Mycroft’s underclothes, stripping them both and shoving Mycroft to the bed; moving and moaning until Mycroft is nothing but a haze of lightning-strike arousal and heavy eyelids. It’s been so long. It’s never been like this.

“I’ve been tested,” Greg says abruptly, pulling back to catch Mycroft’s eye. “Went by the doc’s after I found out about my ex. Ran the full panel, came back clean.”

Mycroft clears his throat. “I was tested three months ago. There were no issues.”

Greg shimmies backward; he brushes against Mycroft’s hard cock, probably by accident. He presses his thumb against Mycroft’s nipple, decidedly on purpose. Mycroft groans. “Greg,” he says, breathless. _Alive_.

“So there hasn’t been anyone else? In three months?”

“No one,” Mycroft says. “Of course not, no one.”

“Fuck,” says Greg, dropping his head to Mycroft’s chest. Grazing nipple with his teeth. Dragging teeth over the base of his throat. “Mine,” he says. “Mine.”

“Yours," says Mycroft, then, "would you like me to fuck you?” Because that’s what men want from him, _always_ , and he can do that, he swears he can, even if he’s never felt so frazzled, dizzy. Even if he’s never been so affected.

“Is that what you want?”

No one has ever asked him that before; how can he possibly respond? He tries to gather his thoughts, but he’s sure he hasn’t stopped staring, hasn’t moved.

Greg has gentled his touch. He rubs soothing circles over Mycroft’s stomach, over his chest. “We can stop,” he says, and Mycroft makes a low noise, offended.

“Don’t you dare,” he says, sardonic and crisp and much more like himself.

“Let me take care of you,” Greg says, and it’s lovely, he’s lovely; it’s _enough_ , enough to lay back and allow himself to be touched gently, to be fingered open by hands other than his own, to be treated more care than he’s ever treated himself, dripping with lubricant and Greg’s eyes on his face, searching, searching for any sign of discomfort.

“Now,” Mycroft says. _Fuck me now, look at me and fuck me, put yourself inside of me and let me see what that looks like, I want to know. I want to understand_. He should say it, say the words out loud; instead, he thrashes, pulls Greg closer, closer.

“Yeah,” Greg breathes, “yeah, yes.” And he does: he eases inside, slowly, slowly, then cries out when Mycroft pulls him in quick, encourages him to thrust faster and faster, to take what he needs. Greg reaches between them to stroke Mycroft’s cock; he’s so close to orgasm; he’d be there if he could focus; Greg changes his angle, as if he’s reading Mycroft’s mind, and that’s it, this is it, he goes still with the force of it, coming with his eyes clenched closed and mouth open. He holds on tight, grips Greg close as he finishes inside him, Greg whispering endearments and both filthy and sweet.

…

He needs air. He wakes up with Greg wrapped around him, tangled up around him like a sheet, and he needs air, he needs to breathe. One more second in this nest of _love making_ and _sweethearts_ and _cuddles_ and Mycroft will lose himself; he’ll jump in with both feet or he’ll run away and never look back. He needs to moderate. He needs to breathe.

He leaves Greg’s flat quietly, half dressed and half wild, but stops short only steps away from the door. He breathes. Breathes the night air, in and out, in and out. Considers how much he wants to be where he just left. How much he’d give to be feel Greg’s arms around him again, the pain he’d dish out to whomever might try to take that away from him. Even himself.

He turns around. There’s just enough time to catch a glimpse: pale blond hair and dark gray eyes. Horn-rimmed glasses. Baseball bat.

He blacks out.

Comes to in an empty room. He’s tied to a chair, no give in his bindings. Fire in the fireplace, pictures of children along the mantle. Cobwebs in every corner, dust thick over the photos. Fingerprint on the corner of one of the frames: a photo of a child with thick glasses and dark gray eyes.

Alone. Of course he’s alone. Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman, the Silver Tongue, he can talk his way out of anything, can convince anyone to do his bidding, but there’s no convincing dirty gray brick and faded pink wallpaper. _No convincing fire_ , he thinks before he can stop himself, because the smoke is rapidly filling the room, streaming in from what is probably the kitchen, and there’s no changing that, no time to focus on that.

A fireplace poker. Reach the fireplace poker. The chair tips in his attempt to shift toward the poker; his hand is crushed against the wood floor and there’s some kind of bruise or gash on his forehead, but it doesn’t matter: the rope has loosened around one ankle: a weakness. He should have spotted it in the first place. He twists his ankle to slip his foot away from the chair, but the smoke is very thick and he’s alone, alone

It’s Greg who rushes through the door, could be an apparition, how silly, how romantic, but Greg touches him, so perhaps they are both inhabited by a corporeal body, this time. Sherlock follows, layers of judgement and irritation over confusion over fear. Mycroft says nothing.

Mycroft laughs.

…

He wakes up in hospital. Greg is asleep to his left, Anthea to his right. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen, but has clearly absconded with his umbrella. He shifts, minutely, and both Greg and Anthea bolt upright.

“It wasn’t premeditated,” Anthea says, anticipating his first question. Smart girl. 

“It was someone I put away,” Greg says, dully, as if giving a recitation. “My fault.”

“He saw you leaving--” Anthea says

“Would have burned you alive, to punish me--”

“I’ve canceled your meetings for the next--”

“Killed his grandmother--”

“You have a concussion--”

“Broken finger--”

Mycroft clears his throat. “Enough. Enough.”

Anthea stands. She looks so exhausted she could collapse, but she still digs a manila file folder from her purse. “The details,” she says. “The ramifications.”

“Go home,” he says gently.

Greg stands as soon as they’re alone. He runs a finger over Mycroft’s face, over the bandage on his forehead, and it’s a barely-there touch. He sucks in a breath and seems to choke on it. “I thought you were--”

“I’m not,” Mycroft says firmly.

“I’m sorry--”

“Don’t. Don’t do that. Please.”

Greg sinks back down into his chair and drops his face into his hands. “You left,” he says, like the words are being wrenched from him.

_I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to want good things. I don’t know how to keep good things. I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you._

“I was coming back,” he says. “I had already turned around. I was coming back.”

Greg exhales, slowly. Takes Mycroft’s unbroken hand and presses and kiss to the center of his palm.

“I couldn’t leave,” Mycroft says. “I turned around. I chose you. I choose you.”

“I choose you,” Greg says, tears brimming over, voice tight with exhaustion and relief. “I choose you too.”

A promise. A pact. A choice. _A choice_.

…

Unfortunately, he’s avoided Mummy’s phone calls for too long, which means another torturous family dinner.

“I thought you had her on a timer,” scolds Sherlock, who has never made an obligatory family telephone call in his entire life.

It’s not as bad as usual, perhaps owing to the sympathy Mycroft receives over his injuries, and he’s almost in a good mood when Sherlock walks Greg into their parents house. Unexpectedly.

“This is Mycroft’s Lestrade,” Sherlock says, before wandering off to another room to play on his mobile.

“Mycroft has a Lestrade?” Mummy asks, shrilly. She twirls to face Mycroft. “You have a Lestrade?”

“This is a family dinner,” Greg says, a slow realization. He shuts his eyes. “Sherlock,” he mutters. He takes a blind step toward the door, and it’s clear he’s a word away from bolting.

“I do have a Lestrade,” Mycroft says smoothly, moving forward to wrap an arm around Greg. “Greg, this is my mother. Mummy, Greg.”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Greg says, timid, but clearly on more solid ground.

“Mike never mentioned you,” Mummy says, frowning. “I didn’t think you’d be so handsome.”

“Mycroft is handsome,” Greg says sharply, and Mummy positively _beams_ at him before schooling her expression into something more neutral.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” she says, bustling from the room. “For now. I’ll expect your help in the kitchen soon.”

“I apologize for not inviting you,” Mycroft says, low, though Mummy is surely managing to eavesdrop regardless. “I do my best to avoid these little _get-togethers_ ; it never occurred to me to willingly subject you to them.”

“Sherlock tricked me,” Greg says, morose in tone but amused expression. “Again.”

Mycroft breaks into a laugh; he can’t help it. Greg joins in, and they laugh together, together here in the hell-hole that is his parent’s home.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Mycroft says, “despite the circumstances.”

Greg grins and loops an arm around Mycroft’s. “Me too. Don’t tell Sherlock.”

“Never,” he agrees, and seals it with a soft kiss. “Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: posting two chapters at once, and right at the deadline, because I am 150% train wreck! I hope you enjoyed <3


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